So now we put on surgical-looking gloves before we start, onlyto find the glue has formeda skin in its tub which mustbe removedlike off old jam, the newsthat his cousin has beenfoundin t-shirt and pants saton the stairs half way downit would seem, by his sister and brother-in law who climbed over the fencepassed onincidental, in a conversationabout the floor.

Shows me the notch he hascut to fit round theedge of the skirting,folding and squeezing his hand intothe glove, almost tearing with histhick fingers points out casuallythat after his brotherfrom those two sisters threeof the five now remain.

Strangethat more didn’t come from thehuge and struggling clanof thirteen Welshmenfrom whom his Dad was chosento come to London andget an educationbut then again,infancy alone took almost half.

Outside, rainpatters on the roofthey built overthe side passagewhich keeps the tools and the paintand the washing dry in winter.

We measure the boards, sawthem on the benchlay them in the brown gluelike a ploughed field, patternedby the trowels’ grooves.

We have never been farmersmostly teachers, engineers, driversshopkeepers, milkmen, minersand one politiciana peaceful man sent to prison.

The doors will need to be taken offplaned, re-hung, new holesdrilled in the hinges.

Once we made a recordingjust Gran talkingwe
listenedbut all we
found was distantmuffled sound when wetook it down, wiped, from the shelf.

This we do.The wood shaves off in curls thatfloat a little as they fall.